


Love in the Language of Sweaters

by SaintHeretical



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Awkward Ben Solo, Drunk Poe Dameron, F/M, Fainting, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous Descriptions of Bad Fashion, New Year's Eve, Office Sex, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, VERY awkward Ben Solo, arts and crafts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-23 07:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17076068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintHeretical/pseuds/SaintHeretical
Summary: Corporate executive Ben Solo is a consummate professional and is always concerned about maintaining the reputation of himself and his company. Never in a million years would he even consider participating in the ridiculous holiday abomination that is Ugly Sweater Month, no matter how much nagging he gets from his coworker Poe.That is, until he runs into his building’s charming, intelligent and eye-meltingly beautiful delivery girl, who also happens to wear the most revolting holiday sweaters he's ever seen.





	Love in the Language of Sweaters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LilibethSonar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilibethSonar/gifts).



There are thirty five ceiling tiles.

Thirty five, in a five by seven grid, make up the ceiling. Well, thirty four and five eighths, if he counts the one in the middle of the third row that looks like someone took a huge bite out of the edge.

Ben lets his gaze drag down from the roof and over the muted grey walls of the conference room to rest on the face of Poe, who is still blathering about ‘holiday spirit’ and ‘employee engagement’ with a _smile_ on his face. Suppressing his grumbles, Ben glances at the other three saps making up this year’s Social Committee: What’s-Her-Face from Accounting, Chews-Too-Loud from Shipping, and That Guy who works- who _works-_

He shakes his head, unable to place the short, portly, bearded man who is smiling animatedly at Poe. _Too many people work at this damn company._

He traces the stylized logo at the top of his notepad until the ‘F’ ‘O’ and ‘P’ are entangled in a web of glistening black ink. Initially a paper clip manufacturer exclusively, First Order Paperclips quickly transitioned to a multipurpose office supply company, mostly through a series of hostile takeovers of rival brands. In just five years, they went from shipping ten million units a week (small numbers in the paper clip business) to being the primary source for office supplies and furniture in the entire country.

Ben’s stare fixates on the large black paper clip sculpture displayed on the wall directly behind Poe’s head. Mentally, he calculates the degrees of the curves and imagines the tensile strength of a clip the large, made of what appears to be hollow aluminium tubing sprayed with black laquer. _How many sheets of equally scaled paper could that clip hold?_ he wonders. _And what poundage would an equivalent sheet of paper be…?_

“-and of course that’s why we have Ben here, hey Ben? Ben?”

The sound of his name on Poe’s lips jolts him out of his daydream. “Yes, of course,” he mumbles. “That’s why I’m here.”

The truth of the matter is that he’s only on the Social Committee as their Executive sponsor because he has to. It’s one of the pitfalls of being an executive, he supposes, having to serve on one of three inane committees meant to foster employee engagement and encourage retainment. It’s just a sick joke that he, the most antisocial executive on a C-team of abrasive personalities, would be the one to oversee the year’s party planning.

Thank God for Poe. It’s a sentiment he never thought he’d say, but the other man absolutely _lives_ for parties, and practically jumped at the opportunity to chair the committee. Spending the company’s ridiculous social committee fund was just an additional perk.

With a final “yeah team!”, Poe adjourns the meeting. Ben waits until What’s-Her-Face, Chews-Too-Loud, and That Guy shuffle out of the boardroom before he rolls his eyes and grumbles, “So, what’s the damage?”

Chuckling, Poe slides his notes across the table and leans back in his chair. “Same old, same old. Hot chocolate and cider bar on the fourth, Secret Santa starting on the sixth. New Year’s party on the 31st at the office to save money, _you’re welcome._ Also, we’ve decided to spring for Ugly Sweater _month_ this year because-”

“Absolutely not.”

Poe recoils. “Absolutely not? What’s wrong with ugly sweaters?”

“It’s right there in the name. They’re ugly.” Ben raises an eyebrow. “We’re a professional company with an image to maintain.”

“But it’s _December._ ”

“We still do business in December.”

Poe’s lips thin. “It’s not like our staff are front facing. Barely any of them actually see clients. It’s not like _you_ have to wear an ugly sweater every day.”

“I should hope not. And why a month?” Over twenty working days of ugly sweaters is bound to give Ben a massive headache.

“This whole ugly sweater trend has left people with an excess of tacky sweaters, and it would be nice to give them an occasion to wear them for more than one day a year.” Poe shrugs. “I think it’s harmless, and I bet Leia would agree.”

“I’m sure Snoke wouldn’t.”

Poe sighs deeply; the kind of sigh that makes his entire chest cavity rise until it almost grazes his chin. “Ben, let’s not pit the executives against the Board again. Not for something as minor as this.”

Ben would argue that company image is far from something minor, but Poe does have a point. Besides that, it’s almost lunch, and the Korean place in the basement is having a sale on fried chicken. “This isn’t over,” he announces.

Poe sighs again. “It never is.”

The change in air quality from the stuffy boardroom  to the open lobby is so refreshing that Ben pauses to take in a few gulps, and it’s there that he sees _it._

The first ugly sweater of the season. On _November 28th._

The wearer is a the tall, slim woman who is chatting with Finn, the front desk admin. Shocked by it’s vibrance, Ben does a double take and groans. The hideousness of the sweater clashes against the cool minimalist aesthetic of the office like a bull crashing into a plate glass window. It’s red, more Santa-esque than oxblood, with lurid green wreaths woven through the back. He didn’t think it was possible for green and red to clash so much, but the manufacturer of the sweater seemed to think it would be a great idea to emphasize the ugliness of the sweater by using the same tints found in a child’s Microsoft Paint creation. The green is almost fluorescent, shot through with silvery tinsel that looks like sparkly dandruff from a distance.

But then the woman turns, and Ben groans again.

She’s _beautiful._ Warm hazel eyes, bouncy nut-brown hair, and a smile that lights up her entire face, which is sprinkled with just the right amount of freckles. It’s painful how beautiful she is; she makes his guts curl up into a ball and his heart stutter.

All thoughts of fried chicken abandoned, Ben just stands in the lobby and stares. She’s scanning pieces of mail as she chats, so his sluggish brain finally deduces that she must be a new delivery person, hired on to handle the incoming holiday rush. The juxtaposition of her graceful movements handling dull, beige parcels seems criminal to Ben. This woman belongs on the runway, or on the cover of a magazine, or in the movies. Not _handling mail,_ only to be seen by bored receptionists and angry postal workers.   

Finn’s eyes flick over to him, and it’s only then that Ben realizes he’s probably been standing in that one spot for an awkward amount of time. He clears his throat and, using his best ‘friendly executive’ voice, says, “Hello Finn.”

“Hullo Ben,” Finn replies. “Good meeting?”

“Uh huh.” The small talk is driving Ben insane. It does on the best of days, and now, faced with easily the most gorgeous women he’s ever seen, he feels his brain short-circuiting even faster than normal. “Uh...are you excited for the holidays?”

Finn’s face lights up. “Yeah, totally! Poe was saying December’s going to be Ugly Sweater month, which sounds _awesome_ -”

“When did he say that?” Ben snaps. “That’s not official yet.”  
  
Finn shrugs. “He just Slacked it to me.”

“That’s premature, as I haven’t agreed to it. Frankly, I think ‘ugly sweaters’ are highly unprofessional, since-”

Too late, he remembers the luminous delivery woman’s attire. He chokes back his response and chances a glance in her direction.

Pointedly, she looks away. Dropping the last parcel on the front desk, she mutters, “See ya, Finn,” in the most sexy voice Ben has ever heard, then darts out the door, mail cart rolling behind her, leaving him gaping at her retreating back like a fish.

“Y’know, just because she’s a delivery person doesn’t mean you have to make her feel like shit,” Finn observes.

“I wasn’t referring to her. Obviously she can wear whatever she wants, since it doesn’t matter-”

“Because delivery people aren’t professionals?”

“-because she doesn’t _work here,”_ Ben responds through gritted teeth.

Finn raises an eyebrow then turns back to his computer screen, looking far more smug than he’s paid to be.

Later, over a plate of sweet chili fried chicken, Ben grumbles.  “I hate this new egalitarian work atmosphere.”

Phasma, the COO to his CPO, grins with delight. “You’ve got your dear mum to thank for that, Ben” She reaches over his desk to snag one of his fries. “Is this about the ugly sweater thing? Poe already cleared it with me before your meeting. Sorry.”

“Not just that, but thanks anyway.” He peels the crispy skin off of a particularly succulent looking chicken thigh and nibbles on it thoughtfully. “I made an ass of myself in front of a delivery person today, and _your_ staff member thought it would be beneficial to point it out.”

“Finn’s people skills are some of his best assets,” Phasma observes. She pauses, her manicured nails tapping against the frosted glass of his desk. “Did it happen to be that new delivery person? The girl?”

Ben supposes any other woman would be a _girl_ to Phasma, who stands six foot five in heels with a chilly, looming personality to match, but the word _girl_ still makes him feel kind of gross inside, like he’s some sort of creep for noticing the nameless delivery person’s beauty. “I guess, yeah,” he admits, eyes locked on his chicken in an effort to hide the blush creeping up his cheeks.

“I see. Well, admittedly your people skills aren’t the best.”

“Not what I was hired for. The production of structurally sound paper clips and office furniture doesn’t call for small talk, thankfully.”

“Thankfully, yes,” she deadpans. “Can’t imagine you in my job, for example. Ben Solo, overseeing HR and professional development? This place would burn to the ground.”

“Thanks for your vote of confidence.”

She has a point. Perhaps he _is_ a bit of a hard ass. A killjoy. A soulless, corporate tool. Struck by a burst of eccentricity, he blurts out. “Fine, let’s do it.”

Phasma eyes him suspiciously. “Do what?

“Ugly Sweater month. What could it hurt? Most of our employees aren’t front facing anyway. And it’s December; people pretty much expect it at this point.”

“Uh huh.” She steals another fry. “Whatever you say, boss.”

*

Day one of Ugly Sweater Month, and Ben is wearing the exact opposite of an ugly sweater. In his defence, there’s a Board meeting in the morning, chaired by the former CEO of FOP Inc., Archimedes Snoke, a known corporate hard ass and stickler for all things professional. Snoke almost had a heart attack when he walked off of the elevator and saw Finn wearing a hideous, reindeer embroidered monstrosity right at the front desk, but luckily the C-Suite, Ben’s mother included, opted for conservative business suits, which managed to calm his nerves.

Consumer trend discussions are some of the driest drivel Ben has to sit through. The fact that it directly impacts his department without actually utilizing any of his skills makes it even more excruciating. He would rather stress test bottom basement office chairs for an entire week than have to pretend to be interested in why such and such demographic is not longer purchasing loose leaf graphing paper.

“Mechanical pencils have dropped 5 percent. Non-mechanical have risen 17 percent. Does anyone have an explanation for this?”

Snoke’s voice is like nails on a chalkboard. Coupled with the ever present scent of dry erase marker and polyester clad armpits in the room, it’s enough to make Ben want to escape through the ventilation shaft.

“The profit margin for the traditional pencil is higher-” Leia starts.

“-but the gross profit for the mechanical is exponentially greater.” Armitage Hux, CFO and persistent kiss ass sneers at Leia. “Plus the return on replacement leads.”

“The pressure to only use environmentally sourced woods is another strike for the traditional pencil,” Phasma adds, then looks over at Ben for his input.

Today’s discussion is spicier than the usual graphs and pie charts. Normally at this point in the banter he’s game to add an additional jab, but today his heart’s just not into it. “Really we should be thankful that people are still buying our supplies at all,” he mutters.

The meeting is adjourned with a wave of Snoke’s skeletal hand. The elderly man’s glare in Ben’s direction promises an unpleasant conversation to come, but at the moment the only thing drawing Ben’s attention is the elevator, where he spots the brightly garbed delivery girl dragging her overloaded parcel cart onto the floor and into the lobby.

Today her sweater is obviously homemade. The back has a crooked Frosty the Snowman made of hot glued pompoms and a black felt hat, and the front is covered by a pompom Christmas tree decked in glittery pipe cleaner garland.

“Finn, I love your sweater!” she gushes when she spots him in all of his reindeer trimmed glory.

“Oh, this thing? I just bought it...but yours!” he exclaims. “Did you make it yourself?”

She spins in place, beaming. “I did, yeah. Do you like it?”

“I love it!” Finn glances past her and spots Ben. “Hey!” he call out cheerfully. “How was your meeting?”

“Uh-” Ben feels his cheeks flush as the delivery girl looks over her shoulder at him. “It was okay.”

Uninterested, the girl turns away and starts scanning packages. Ben’s stomach clenches, and he panics. “I, uh, I like your sweater. Both of your sweaters.”

The girl snorts. “Sure you do.”

“I do! They’re very...festive.”

Finn’s eyes narrow. “Thanks Ben,” he responds suspiciously. “Where’s your sweater today?”

“Oh, you know.” Ben shrugs. “I had a meeting.”

“Right. Don’t you _always_ have meetings?”

“Yes. But I’m going to wear an ugly sweater soon. I ordered one,” he lies, then adds, “In the mail,” as if it wasn’t obvious.

Finn nods. “Ah, I see. So once it comes in, then you’re going to wear it?”

“If I don’t have a Board meeting, yeah.”

The girl’s back is turned, but he can still hear her mumble, “Yeah right,” under her breath.

“I will wear one,” he insists. And he means it.

Once he’s safely back in his office, he pulls up Google, and wracks his brain for the proper search parameters before settling on ‘male holiday sweater -ugly’ in the hopes of finding something both appropriately festive and flattering. There’s not much, but he’s able to find a nice merino Fair Isle sweater in muted red and green that he feels falls under the ‘Christmas’ category.

He orders it and selects Super Top Priority Express Shipping to ensure it makes it to his condo as soon as possible. It’s at his building’s front desk that night, so he stuffs it into his briefcase then stashes it on his coat rack as soon as he gets into work the next morning. He doesn’t actually wear it into the office, _heaven forbid_ , but it does sit there at the ready, just waiting for the familiar elevator _ding!_ and heavy roll of a parcel cart.

But then the highlighter factory has to be shut down because of a mouse infestation, which necessitates many _many_ meetings over the span of a week, and the sweater hangs from his coat rack like a very expensive monument to his lack of people skills. Every day, as soon as his morning meeting is adjourned, he races down to reception only to be met by Finn, who gives him a knowing look and shakes his head.

Finally a new Monday rolls around, and when his admin pushes a printed out schedule across his desk and he’s faced with yet _another_ week packed full of meetings, he almost flips his desk.

“Mitaka, are you fucking with me right now?”

His admin, a round faced nervous young man fresh out of university and woefully overqualified for his job, flinches. “No sir.”

“No sir _what_?”

“No sir, I’m not-” Mitaka gulps. “- _fucking_ with you.”

Ben leans back on his chair and folds his hands. “Good. Now call up Kaydel and see if we can’t shift around some of these meetings so I don’t have to pickle my brain in a stuffy meeting room for the rest of my life.”

Mitaka nervously looks over his shoulder at Kaydel Ko Connix, Phasma’s admin, who is seated approximately ten steps away from his desk. “Call her sir?”

“You heard me.”

Head bowed, Mitaka slouches out of Ben’s office and slumps down into his chair, where he proceeds to pick up his headset and dial Kaydel, who answers her own phone with a frown on her face.

 _“Dopheld, what the hell are you doing?_ ”

Ben smirks to himself. Messing with his timid assistant is one of the few joys of his life at the office. That and watching Rose Tico, his mother’s diminutive spitfire EA, attempt to reach the spare Keurig cups that he intentionally keeps on the top shelf in the staff kitchen.

He looks down at his schedule and his smirk fades.

Meetings. The bane of his existence. Five of them are even chaired by Hux, who is another bane of his existence. If anyone can make a basic meeting even worse, it’s Hux, who is abysmally bad at making finances anything more than the least interesting topic imaginable.

On Tuesday he has _three_ back to back finance meetings with Hux. “I’m going to die,” Ben mutters to himself, running his fingers through his already messy hair. He catches a glance of his sweater out of the corner of his eye and sighs. So much for casually running into the cute delivery girl this week.

Suddenly, he has an idea. His hand stills mid-stroke, then he hurriedly pulls over his laptop and brings up eBay, a bizarre but hopefully effective plan brewing.

*

_Ding!_

The rolling wheels of the delivery cart are slower and louder today as they clack across the tiled floor of the lobby. Ben winces, imagining the cart laid heavy with holiday parcels being dragged by the delivery girl’s thin frame. He’s so, so tempted to sneak a peek through the meeting room’s glass walls, but he’s afraid even that will be noticed by Hux’s laser gaze.

Luckily, he’s stationed himself right next to the door, which is just close enough that he can catch slightly garbled bits of conversation from down the hall.

“ _I have a package for-_ ” The delivery girl pauses, most likely to read the shipping label. “- _a Ben Solo? It’s high priority secure mail, so he’ll need to sign for it._ ”

“ _Really? Shit_ ,” Finn hisses. “ _That can’t be good._ ”

“ _Not necessarily. There are a ton of reasons why something might be sent using secure mail_.” She lists them off. “ _Could be legal documents, human remains, sex toys-_ ”

Ben jumps to his feet, desperate to terminate their discussion as quickly as possible. “I-I gotta go. To the bathroom,” he stutters, face flaming.

Hux looks away from his projected graph of GL code breakdowns, his face contorted into a scowl. “Can it not wait?”

“No-”

“Aw, Ben, I told you that burrito was bad,” Poe chides. “You feeling it now?”

The entire room groans, and Ben’s pretty sure his face can’t possibly get any redder.

“ _Paging Ben to reception.”_ Finn announces of the intercom. _“You have a delivery.”_

Awkwardly, Ben points up at the ceiling. “That’s for me.”

Hux rolls his eyes “Yes, I can hear that, but-”

He doesn’t stay around to hear the end of Hux’s protests, and almost jogs down the hallway to reception before he remembers that the sweater, _the sweater,_  is still hanging in his office. Cursing under his breath, he backs up and catches his breath behind a large fiddle leaf fig that’s just big enough to block him from the gazes of everyone still in the glass walled meeting room he just vacated.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters as he calculates his plan. Fortunately, this side of the office is pretty empty, so there’s no one to comment on why exactly he’s squatting behind a potted plant, but that also means it’s also completely devoid of cover. Both reception and the nearest bathroom are to the left, but he has to go right to avoid the delivery girl seeing him without his sweater.

Chancing a glance, he watches as she methodically scans parcels while chatting with Finn. Her sweater is white today, with a pattern of rainbow hued snowflakes sprinkled across it, and her hair is drawn up in a high ponytail that reveals the smooth, tanned skin of her neck. She and Finn burst out in laughter, no doubt at some witty joke the other man said.

She’s not going to be there waiting for him forever, so he grits his teeth and attempts to flatten himself against the carpet and wiggle his way past the meeting room. It’s ridiculously silly, but his anxiety ridden brain can’t think of any other way to make it back to his office unseen that doesn’t involve several hours, a supply cart, and pulling the fire alarm at least twice.

By some holiday miracle, Hux’s presentation is engaging enough that everyone in the meeting is too distracted to notice Ben inching himself across the floor, face to carpet. Everyone, that is, except for Poe, who looks down right as Ben wiggles past the door. His eyes lock with Ben’s and go as wide as a pair of oreo cookies, and Ben feels like he just might die on the spot. Neck trembling with the effort, he manages to pry his face off of the ground long enough to shake his head wildly while gritting his teeth.

Finn’s voice, now slightly annoyed, buzzes over the intercom. _“Can Ben Solo please report to reception as soon as possible? There is a parcel waiting for you.”_

Five agonizing, sweaty seconds pass, and then Poe, jaw tensed to contain his laughter, gives him one nod in solidarity before pointing at the ceiling and asking, “ _Hey, did you guys just see that spider up there?”_

Every person in the meeting looks up and exclaims, which gives Ben enough time to scoot forward, ass in the air, past the room and into an empty cubicle. He catches his breath for a second, grabs an abandoned stack of recycling, then takes off down the hall, being sure to flip through the papers to ensure he’s not disturbed.

Mitaka lets out a startled “Oh, I wasn’t expecting you-” but he’s in and out of his office before he can hear the rest, jamming the sweater over his head as he jogs to reception.

“Finally,” Finn breathes. “You know it’s almost Christmas, right? She’s got places to be.”

“Yeah sorry, I was in a meeting,” Ben responds, breathlessly.

At the sound of his voice, the delivery girl whirls around. “ _You’re_ Ben Solo?”

“Guilty as charged.”

He cringes.

Unfazed by his lameness, the delivery girl nods and hands him her scanner. “Please keep your signature within the little box,” she instructs.

He signs his name, his large fingers fumbling with the toothpick-sized stylus he has to use. Upon accepting his signature, the delivery girl hands him his parcel, and restacks her remaining parcels, preparing to leave.

Ben panics. “I-I love your sweater.”

She pauses her preparation and turns back towards him. “You do?” she says, skeptical.

“Yeah it’s...neat.”

“ _Neat?_ Well, thank you.” A pause. “I like your sweater too.”

“Oh this?” He runs his hand over the intricate needlework. “Thanks. I thought it would be good for Ugly Sweater month, with the red and green.”

“Mmmhm.” She tilts her head, assessing it with hazel eyes that twinkle mischievously. “It’s not really that ugly though, is it?”

His heart stutters. “It’s not?”

She shakes her head. “Nah, not really. I think you could do better, Mr. Professional.”

“I, well-”

The tinny tones of a midi rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’ pierces his eardrums before he can come up with a more dignified response. The delivery girl groans and fishes around in her pocket until she pulls out an ancient looking cell phone, which she answers with a curt, “Hullo?”

The call lasts less than a minute, over which she rolls her eyes at least three times. With a final eye roll, she hangs up and grimaces. “I gotta go. My boss is calling me in for another double shift, and I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

Ben thinks of the staff kitchen, stuffed full of holiday baking and complimentary snacks. “I can-”

But she’s already turned her back on him, dragging the still heavy cart as fast as she can towards the door. “See ya Finn,” she calls behind her, then adds, “And you too, Mr. Professional.”

He tries not to watch the way her hips sway as she retreats, but fails miserably, his eyes glued to the curve of her arched back as she pushes her cart into the elevator.

“That was adorable.”

He tears his eyes away from her to glower at Finn. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You think I don’t notice you waiting around here more often than usual?” Finn squints menacingly. “I see _everything._ ”

Ben snorts. “I’m sure you do.”

He digs his fingers into the brown paper wrapped around his parcel and rips it free. Tossing it onto Finn’s desk, he uses his keys to carve open the fibreglass reinforced tape and free what appears to be an empty mason jar from the box.

Finn stares at the jar, his face a mix of disgust and confusion. “What is that?”

“It’s a ghost,” Ben answers, as if it’s the most sensible purchase in the world. “I bought it off of some paranoid guy on eBay.”

Finn continues to stare. “You bought a ghost? Off eBay?”

Ben nods and points to the makeshift masking tape label on the jar, which reads ‘ _Mildred Finkelstein d. 1874’_ in thick block letters. “Yeah. I mean, I know it’s not actually a ghost. I just needed something-”

“You wanted a parcel to sign for. Okay I get it.” Finn nods. “I admire your perseverance, but you could just ask for her number, you know? Like a normal person?”

Ben chooses to ignore him and instead heads back to his office, jar in hand.

*

_“Ben Solo, please report to reception. You have a delivery.”_

He’s ready this time with his sweater on underneath his standard black shirt and blazer. Sure it’s hot, but it’s a lot easier to quickly ditch his additional layers behind the potted plant than it is to continuously army crawl back to his office.He’s pretty proud of this new sweater too. It’s a deep navy with a line of garish red deer woven across the chest, with additional white and red patterns that give it some festive cheer, _surely_ holiday themed enough for any delivery girl he may or may not be interested in.

Chest puffed, he strides down the hall to reception, self assured smirk on his face. The delivery girl’s sweater is navy as well, and for a second his heart stops, imagining the kismet of them wearing the _same damn sweater_ , but then she turns and he sees six hand cut felt ducks on the front, sitting on identical lumpy snowballs.

Her face lights up (and _god_ , he could live in this moment forever), but it melts away when she examines the pattern a bit more closely. “Is that... _Gucci_?”

It is Gucci, and stupid, _stupid_ Ben didn’t connect the dots until now: the handmade sweaters, the double shifts, the seasonal job as a delivery person. His damned ugly sweater that cost over a thousand dollars is perhaps the most callous, thoughtless thing he could wear, a mockery of the very ugliness it claims to represent.

And all he can do is stand there as she waits, expectantly, for his stupid brain to come up with a salvageable response.

“Uhhh. Yeah, yeah it is.”

Chewing on her lip, she raises her eyebrows and turns away to grab his parcel, head shaking. “Didn’t know Gucci made ugly sweaters,” she mumbles.

“It’s not as cool as yours though,” he stutters. “It’s very creative. I-I love the ducks?"

She whirls around, eyes ablaze. “They’re _geese_!”

“Geese?” Once again, his brain clues in moments too late. “The six geese a laying. That’s so clever, I-”

“Don’t humour me. Not all of us can get Gucci to make our sweaters for us.” She shoves her scanner and stylus into his hands. “Please sign here.”

The toothpick stylus is comically tiny in his large hand, so naturally this time he fumbles and drops it. They both bend to retrieve it off the ground and, _of course_ , Ben is so nervous that he bonks his face into her forehead and, oh God, there’s something _warm_ running down his face...

“Ohmigod!” she squeaks when she spots the blood. “Finn, is there-?”

“On it!” Finn tosses her a box of Kleenex, then takes off to the kitchen for some ice, leaving her and Ben to sop up blood from his face with increasingly soggy wads of tissue.

“I’m so sorry!” she breathes, dabbing ineffectually at his face with shaking hands. “I thought you had it.”

“No, no, it was my fault,” he mumbles. He tastes copper on his lips, and his eyes begin to roll back in his head. “Oh no, it’s in my mouth-”

His hands fumble wildly for support, head spinning, stomach clenching _hard_ on the egg salad wrap he had for lunch. The delivery girl tries to hold him up, but he’s easily twice her size, and all her efforts just result in her crashing to the floor along with him.

“I’m gonna puke,” he mumbles. His face feels funny, all tingly, and his lips have gone numb.

The girl looms over him, hands planted on either side of his head. Her hair falls in shiny, sweet smelling curtains around his face and all he can think of is how easy it would be to just reach out and _touch_ it.

“You’re not going to puke,” she commands. “You are _not_ going to puke.”

“Why not?” he groans.

“Because then I’ll puke too.”

Seems reasonable. “Okay.” His voice sounds weird, all weak and small.

Now his eyelids feel funny. Vaguely, he sees a blur that must be Finn running back with a bag of ice in his hands, but all he can focus on is the girl, so pretty, so nice, so-

The last thing he sees before he blacks out  is her beautiful face, twisted with concern.

*

_“Ben, Ben, can you hear me? Come on, wake up!”_

He can feel something beneath his fingers, something soft and slightly scratchy. Slowly, he raises his fist to his face and, with watery eyes, manages to make out a lopsided felt goose crushed in his hand.

“Shit.” He drops his head back against the floor and groans.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s his mother that stares back. “You gonna be okay, big guy? Blood again?”

“Yeah.”

It appears that half of the office has waited around to watch him recover. He spots Hux snickering in the back next to Poe, who elbows him in the ribs. Even Phasma looks a little concerned, which is big for her.

Finn is squatting down next to him, bag of ice melting in his hand, and Ben remembers.

“Is-is _she_ okay?” He asks, squeezing the felt goose.

Leia frowns. “Okay everyone, party’s over,” she calls out. Grumbling, the gathered crowd disperses back to their regular afternoon workload, leaving the three of them alone in reception. She turns back to him. “The girl is fine, Ben.”

“She got called away right after you passed out,” Finn explains. “But she’ll be back tomorrow, so you can sign for your parcel then. And she signed this.”

He hands Ben an official looking document.

“It’s an incident report,” he explains. “I’m the assistant fire warden, so I quickly wrote one up and made sure she signed it before she had to leave.”

Ben scans the report. His gut rolls with embarrassment when he reads the phrase ‘head to head collision” and then clenches when he gets to the bottom of the form.

“Signed by Rey Johnson. _Rey_ ,” he breathes. “It suits her.”

Leia groans. “Ben, I swear to God.”

He signs the from, promising to report to the company immediately if he’s treated for symptoms of a concussion, whiplash, or any other head and face trauma, then passes the form to Finn without another look.

For the rest of the day, his mind is in the clouds, the name _Rey_ a golden mantra swirling through his brain. He traces the letters with his mind’s eye, imagines the name on her lips, and even catches himself doodling it in the margins of his meeting notes.

Rey.

Rey Johnson.

Rey Johnson- _Solo_.

Grunting with frustration, he rubs at his forehead. “Since when am I such a whiny teenager?” he grumbles to himself.

The last meeting of the day adjourns a minute before 4:30. Ben plods back to his office and flings himself onto his plush office chair, a scowl carved on his face. Mitaka peeks in as if to say goodbye, but thinks better of it and heads home without a word, leaving Ben alone to glower.

There’s blood on his sweater, but it hardly matters. Not when it earned him such a look of disgust from Rey, creative, resourceful Rey who spends her free time lovingly hand crafting sweaters to spread holiday cheer to random strangers. Rey, a beam of bright sunshine blessing others with her glowing smile.

Grunting angrily, he yanks the sweater off over his head and throws it into his trash can.

He knows what he has to do.

*

The racks seem endless, spanning from one end of the warehouse to the other. Ben has no idea where to look. There’s a Christmas section closer to the front, but upon second glance, those sweaters seem too manufactured, too clean and inauthentic. For Rey, the girl with a smile like sunshine and a knack for creating true hideousness, he needs to find some vintage, authentic ugliness.

Ben’s not ashamed about the fact that he comes from a financially comfortable family. It afforded him a lot of privilege, but kept him from needing to develop a finely honed skill in thrift shopping. Looking around, he spots seniors, hipsters, some young moms with babies, all zeroing in on fantastic finds that he’s not able to see. It’s overwhelming, a lot more so than he was expecting it to be.

With a bit of help from a red vested employee, he’s finally able to find out where the men’s sweater section starts. Taking in a gulp of the strange smelling air, he braces himself for some tragic clothing, and dives in. At first, he’s unsure whether the sweaters here are ugly enough, but about ten hangers in, he comes across a stretched out acrylic monstrosity that's fuzzy, purple, and covered in lopsided beige deer heads.

He smiles and tosses it in his cart.

*

He ends up buying fifteen ugly sweaters that day, some holiday themed and some that are just plain ugly. His favourite, if he can truly call it that, is a gnarled kale green with Snoopy from the Peanuts comic on the front, along with the little yellow bird who is, of course, wearing a Santa hat. As is common for a sweater of its vintage, Snoopy is more beige than white, and the little bird is missing one of his black stitched eyes.

He wears that one first all day. He even keeps it on through his meeting with the northeastern sticky note distributor who gives him a smile and a handshake at the end of the day.

“Nice to see you lightening up for a change, Ben,” the older man says, and Ben doesn’t know whether to be flattered or offended.

Rey does a double take when he approaches reception to sign for his jar of freshly sealed ghosts from New Mexico. “I-.” She closes her mouth, tilts her head, and frowns. “Your sweater-?”

“Yeah, it’s new,” he responds, nonchalantly.

Finn snorts from behind his computer. “New to you, that is.”

Ben flashes him a glare.

“I like it,” she announces. “It’s very festive, and you can see that it’s been well loved.”

“I thought so too.” He nods at her sweater, a pilled blue number with glued on yellow felt circles. “Five golden rings, right?”

“Now you’ve got it.” Her face turns serious. “I meant to ask...are you okay? Yesterday,  after the, uh-”

His face flames. “Yeah, I just get that way when I see, um, blood. It’s stupid.”

Shaking her head , she exclaims, “No, no, loads of people have problems with blood! I mean, not me obviously.”

There’s an awkward, terrifying beat where he’s imagining all of the scenarios  where a sweet person like her would be in the presence of excessive amounts of blood before she clarifies, “Because I’m a girl.”

“Because you’re a girl?” Ben shakes his head, still confused.

Her eyes go wide, and she blurts out, “Because I have a period. I menstruate.”

The room goes silent. _Deathly_ silent.

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Finn mutters.

Face white as a sheet, Rey turns back to her pile of parcels, rummaging around as Ben just stands there waiting for the floor to open up and swallow him. She can only stall for so long before turning around with the package in one hand and her scanner in the other.

“Here’s the, um-” She pushes the scanner in his direction, eyes averted. “Please sign.”

He manages to grip the stylus this time, and scrawls a barely passable approximation of his name onto the screen before passing it back to her. With a nod, she hands him his parcel then turns towards the door, lugging her cart behind her.

Ben’s heart thumps in his chest. _Say something, say something,_ his brain screams, but his mouth doesn’t want to cooperate.

She’s almost at the door to reception when she pauses, shoulders squaring. “I don’t have a very good sense of boundaries,” she announces, still facing away from him. “So I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Also, I’m sorry for hitting your nose with my head.”

Before he can say anything, she’s bolted out the door and into the waiting elevator. He’s left standing there, package in hand, with the methodical _click click click_ -ing of Finn’s typing as a soundtrack to his swirling emotions.

“She’s a nice girl,” Finn says, eyes trained on his computer screen. “Really friendly. Kind of weird sometimes, but really the sweetest person.”

Ben breaks out of his trance. Placing the package down on the counter, he sidles over to where Finn is seated. “So how do you know her?” he asks, casually.

Finn pauses his typing and gives him a side-eyed glance. “She delivers the mail, and I accept it.”

“So, you guys aren’t friends outside of work?”

“No, she literally walked in here a couple of weeks ago with the mail and struck up a conversation about how sometimes it gets so cold outside that her snot freezes.” He shrugs. “She said it herself, she has boundary issues, but it also means she’s really easy to get to know.”

The situation couldn’t have been more clear to Ben if the words ‘MISSED OPPORTUNITY’ flashed in right front of his face. “Shit, I should have said something,” he mutters. “I just didn’t know what to say.”

Finn gives him a knowing look. “Maybe you don’t need to _say_ anything.”

*

It takes him 7 sheets of brown felt, three Sharpies, and a full hour wrestling with a glue gun, but by the next morning he’s sporting an ugly thrifted sweater bedecked with four calling birds. Well, at least an ugly sweater with four bird-ish blobs glued to the front, but he’s confident enough that she’ll at least recognize the effort.

Hux’s ginger eyebrows fly up to his hairline when he sees Ben’s sweater. He pauses, mid bite of his elaborately frosted sugar cookie, to gape for a full fifteen second. “Are you protesting?” he wonders.

Ben frowns. “What would I be protesting?”

“The very concept of fashion.”

He scoffs. “I’m encouraging employee engagement by participating in Ugly Sweater Month. What are you doing?”

Hux sniffs and runs his finger along the neck of his pressed black dress shirt. “I’m participating in Good Taste Month.”

“Oh, touche.”

“It’s every month. In case you haven’t noticed.”

“I’m sure he hasn’t,” Phasma pipes up from her office down the hall. “He’s too busy trying to seduce the delivery girl with his attempts at garish plumage.”

Hux’s face lights up. “Oh, it that what _this_ -” He gestures up and down at Ben’s sweater. “-is all about? Sex?”

“No!” Ben spits, because sex is the furthest thing from his mind when he sees her. Sure, she’s objectively beautiful, but what really attracts him is her creativity, her intelligence, and her megawatt smile.

And her ass. And legs. And how he imagines her smile would relax into blissful satisfaction while he eats her out and-

Okay. So it’s a bit about sex.

He stalks down the hall before he can give Hux the satisfaction of seeing him blush.

This morning’s meeting is a departmental check in regarding the production of FOP’s new line of customizable staplers. It’s a labour intensive process that he hopes will pay off over the holiday season, and he really should be paying attention, but all he can think about now is Rey in various states of undress, pushing her parcel cart down the office hallways.

_“Ben, please come to reception. You have a package...again.”_

Peera, his department’s Project Manager, lets out a huge sigh. “Really Ben, again? You know, we’re all starting to think that this is just an elaborate tactic to get out of meetings.”

“Is it working?” he jokes lamely. “It’s the holidays; we’re all buying a bunch of stuff.”

“Every day though?”

“I have a lot of friends.”

The room erupts in raucous laughter at the mere suggestion that Ben Solo, anti-social grump and perennial party pooper would have any more that one friend who just barely tolerates him. He should be offended, but really he’s just thankful for a distraction and darts out of the room and down the hall.

He’s thought of the perfect opening line, _if_ she’s wearing what he hopes she’s wearing. His heart thumps as he walks past the elevators and pushes his way into reception. Her sweater is royal blue today and when she turns-

-he sees four identical brown bird-ish blobs on her chest.

“Well s-shit,” he stutters. “Guess I’m going to have to go home and change.”

_Nice._

There’s silence for a few excruciating seconds, where Ben is stuck staring at Rey’s shocked face while Finn tries not to gag in the background, and a million thoughts fling themselves through his brain like _maybe it was too much_ , and _that was the lamest possible line ever, what were you thinking?_ and _it’s creepy to make a matching sweater, o god she’s going to think I’m a sociopath..._

Then the silence breaks as her face splits into a dazzling grin and she lets out a peal of laughter so gregarious that she snorts.

“You- _huh_ \- y-you made a sweater with f-four calling birds _too_?”

“You think they look like birds?”

“NO!” She snorts again. “But mine don’t really either!”

He shrugs. “I think they look great.”

“And I think you are either lying, or have extremely bad taste.” She calms down enough to assess his attempt with a quasi-critical eye. “Yours are better, I think. Much more bird like.”

“Thanks, but they honestly look like shits with wings,” he admits, causing her to burst out into another round of chuckles.

“Shits with wings...you’ve got an alright sense of humour on you, Mr. Professional.”

He chews on his lip, nervous, then softly insists, “It’s Ben.”

“Right, Ben.” Her laughter dies down into a shy smile. “Ben Solo.” She gestures down to the unclaimed package in her hands. “He of the mysterious unmarked packages.”

“One and the same.”

She steps a bit closer and pushes her scanner into his hands. For a second, her fingers brush his, and a frission of pleasure tingles down his spine. “Still need to sign for them, even if you do get them every day.” She smiles. “I should get you a punch card or something.”

“Sign for nine packages, get the tenth for free?” He signs his name with a flourish, or as much of a flourish as he can manage to fit within the tiny box.

“Something like that.” She takes back the scanner and trades it for his package. “Though I suppose I shouldn’t be volunteering that without knowing exactly what it is you order.” Her eyes go wide, and she backtracks, “Not that you have to tell me.”

He smiles, softly. “Good, because I’m not going to.”

Hiding her disappointment behind lowered lashes, she shrugs. “It’s your mail.”

“It kills you, doesn’t it,” Finn pipes up from behind his desk. “Delivering all these packages and not getting to know what’s inside them.”

Rey turns back to look at him, affording Ben a close up view of her chestnut hair and slim fitting black pants. “It does and it doesn’t. See, I would like to know, but sometimes it’s nicer to kind of make up stories myself. About what people are getting.”

“What story have you been making up for me?” Ben wonders.

She turns back towards him and wrinkles her nose as she ponders. “Youngish executive type...standoffish...very _professional_. Hm, either you’re ordering daily bespoke dress shirts made by some atelier in Paris, or-” She cocks her head, and her eyes twinkle mischievously. “- you’re a very lonely man with an insatiable appetite for new and exciting exotic adult toys.”

Ben’s face burns with embarrassment as Finn howls with laughter. Doubling over behind his desk, he gasps, “Rey, oh my GOD.”

Flushing pink, she takes a step back, chewing her thumbnail nervously. “I’m sorry, that was-”

“N-no, it’s fine,” Ben assures her. “You warned me. You said it yourself, you have boundary issues.”

She looks so unbelievably cute when she’s embarrassed. “Still, that’s no excuse to-”

“And honestly, how could I expect you to guess that I actually collect antique Russian cat-themed ceramics.”

She doesn’t respond, stare trained down on the glossy tiled floor.

His voice catches in his throat. “I’m the last person who should give you a hard time for saying something inappropriate...I-I’m sorry for being a dick a while back, about your sweater.”

Her eyes fly up. “No, no that’s fine! You weren’t talking about me specifically, I know that.”

“Still, it was dumb of me to say.”

“Well, thank you then.” She gives him a small smile, and his heart flutters.

And then there’s silence. Too much silence. At least a _full minute_ of silence.

She coughs. “Well, I should get going then.”

He nods. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Lips thinning, she nods as well, then busies herself with unstacking and restacking the top five parcels on her cart. Once they’re stacked to her satisfaction, she coughs again, and tugs her cargo to the elevators, throwing a clipped, “Bye Finn,” over her shoulder.

“Bye Rey,” Finn calls back, then rounds his gaze on Ben. “This is getting painful.”

Ben shoves his sweaty hands into his pockets and slumps over. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grumbles trudging back to his office.

The jarred ghost ( _Victor Blevens, 1723_ ) joins its brethren on top of his filing cabinet.

*

His three french hens sweater is, understandably, the stuff of nightmares. She loves it anyway, and snaps a picture of it with her phone before she leaves.

And he doesn’t say anything.

*

Two turtle doves results in a monstrosity bedecked in greenish bird blobs. Apparently turtle doves aren’t a genetic amalgamation of turtles and doves after all.

And he doesn’t say anything.

*

His partridge in a pear tree is his best one yet, but the moment he sees her in her own matching interpretation he breaks out into a cold sweat. This is it, this is the last Day of Christmas. There’s still one more day of Ugly Sweater month before holidays start, but he’s not sure what he’s going to do without the manufactured intimacy of matching handcrafted felt animals.

“This _actually_ looks like a bird. Like, really, really looks like one!”

She runs a finger over the partridge’s beak, which causes his brain to nearly short circuit because she’s touching him _voluntarily_ , not just because she’s handing him something or he’s about to faint, or another similarly ridiculous reason, and it’s so brief and through three layers of shirts, but it feels so _good_.

“W-what do you do?” he blurts out. “Like, for work? Or is it just this?”

She frowns and Ben is struck by the callousness of his comment. Why on Earth would he insinuate that she must have a second job? It’s the damn Gucci sweater all over again.

But then her entire face lights up, and she bursts into excited ranting. “I thought you would never ask! I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being a delivery person of course, but honestly it’s not really my passion, y’know? During the summer season I work at an auto shop that specializes in restoring classic cars, and it’s my _dream_ job, I’m so fortunate to have it, but they don’t get a lot of business in the winter because of the snow and all that, and really who would want to drive their vintage Falcon out in these streets with the ice and salt and gravel? Ugh!”

“Yeah, who would do that?” Ben grunts with disgust and tries to school his features into an expression that a normal person would have. Inside he’s so damn excited because, thanks to his car obsessed dad, he actually knows a small amount about classic cars, and may actually be able to hold a conversation with Rey about something that isn’t sweater related. “Do you see a lot of Falcons in your shop? My dad has a grey one that he’s been driving since the early seventies. The body has gone to shit, but the guts are still good.”

Her mouth drops open. “Not nearly enough. God, I would _love_ to restore a grey Falcon.”

It’s an in, and a damn good one too but naturally Ben’s too stupid to realize that until the moment has passed, and they’re thrust into another awkward silence.

Rey taps her foot against her cart. “Right,” she mumbles. “Your package of the day.”

He takes the parcel allegedly containing the spirit of Lester P. Jones, year of death 1682, and watches helplessly as she rolls back towards the elevators.

“You know she was just waiting for you to ask her out, right?” Finn snorts behind him. “This is just tragic now.”

*

He’s up half the night looking for an ugly holiday sweater featuring a classic car. He finds a couple, but they’re not worth the courier fees to get to his place before the holiday break, so instead he spends the rest of the night sketching and cutting and re-sketching and re-cutting a 1970 Ford Falcon out of grey felt so he can glue it to the front of one of his thrifted sweaters. He adds a Santa hat as well, just in case it’s not festive enough.

Rey’s face lights up when she sees him. “A Falcon!” she breathes. “Did you- did you _make_ this?”

He smiles proudly. “I did.”

“Did you trace it?”

“Nope.”

He neglects to mention the eight sheets of mangled felt in his trash can, but they’re not really relevant anyway.

“D’you like my sweater?” she asks, giving a little spin in front of him.

Ben squints. The sweater is plain black knit, with scattered brown blobs on the front. The blobs have rounder, grey blobs on their blobby heads, and their blob bodies are covered in red, trimmed with thin white stripes drawn on with a paint pen.

It’s apparent that she put a lot of effort into the motif, but he can’t for the life of him figure out what they are. “Those are great, uh-”

“They’re cats!” she says, mildly panicked. “Russian cats. Like the ceramics you said.”

“Cats?” They are vaguely cat-like, though the grey blobs he supposes are hats kind of hide any distinguishing cat features. “Wow, they look great.”

She scowls. “Don’t patronize me, Ben Solo.”

“No, no, I get it now. I’m sorry, I’ve just never seen a sweater with Slavic gangster cats.”

Her scowl softens, and she tries to hide a snort of laughter in her sleeve. “I’m pretty sure this is the only sweater in existence with Slavic gangster cats.”

“That doesn’t make it any less amazing.”

 _Tell her she’s amazing!_ his brain screams, but he can’t seem to make the words come out of his stupid mouth at the right moment, whatever the right moment may be, so they’re thrust into another pool of awkward silence.

She turns back to her cart, giving Ben a moment to stew in his own stupidity. “Your, um, package,” she says, passing him the paper wrapped box along with her scanner. “I’m assuming the last one of the year?”

“Yeah.”

If he was a smart, attractive, romantic man, like one of those guys in a Hallmark movie or teen drama, he would scribble his number on the scanner pad and suavely ask Rey out for coffee and maybe something a little extra. They would end up at the Starbucks on the corner, and she would get a flat white with a squirt of vanilla syrup and he would get a pumpkin spice latte because, _yes_ , he’s more sensitive than the average guy. Then they would walk through the park, admiring the Christmas lights until her feet got too cold to continue and he would offer to take her back to his place to watch _It’s a Wonderful Life_ in front of the fire.

They would definitely start in front of the fire, but she would end up spilling the last of her drink on her Slavic cat sweater, so he would offer to clean it for her, leaving her with one of his cashmere sweaters that smells faintly of his expensive aftershave. She would sniff it against her skin, and realize that, after all of these weeks of cagey sweater related flirting, all she’s really wanted for Christmas is Ben Solo, the professional, attractive, definitely _not_ awkward man washing her sweater in his ensuite sink.

But in reality he’s Ben Solo, awkward office supply executive, who is cowed by the idea of messing with any federal post processes, and instead just signs his name on the scanner like a loser.

“Thanks.” She gives him a small smile that lingers on her lips.

Her eyes flick up to meet his, and the stars align. Another chance. He feels it in his stomach, _this is the moment_ , so he opens his mouth and-

-a herd of his coworkers thunder into the lobby, gabbing enthusiastically, and the moment _shatters._

“Ben!” yells Poe, waving his arms so he can be seen over the crowd. “Leia’s ordered teppanyaki for the staff. The chef’s setting up in the upstairs right now, you coming?”

“Yeah, just give me a minute,” Ben calls back, but it’s too late. Rey ducks away, shoving her scanner into her pocket and securing her remaining parcels.

“Have a Merry Christmas, Ben,” she sighs. “If you celebrate, that is.”

“I do, I-”

She turns and tugs the cart past the crowd of people lingering in front of the door. Ben is struck by a bolt of panic. _If she’s seasonal, will she even be working after the break? Will I ever see her again?_

“Rey, wait!” His voice is strained and slightly garbled.

She pauses, along with most of the staff, who whisper among themselves with barely veiled curiosity.

Normal Ben Solo would brush it off, wish her a Merry Christmas, and head over to have some stir fry with his coworkers as disappointment brewed in his belly, but not today. Not with this beautiful, creative, intelligent woman wearing a Slavic cat sweater she created just for him.

Taking a step forward, he clears his throat and announces, “FOP’s having a New Year’s Eve party in the office. On the 31st. Um, would you like to come?”

 _With me?_ It’s unsaid, but he can only be so brave.

There’s a pregnant pause where he’s aware that every staff member is currently gaping at the two of them, teppanyaki forgotten. His heart is thundering, hands sweaty, stomach twisting and untwisting pretzel style in his gut.

Then Rey turns back to him, grin plastered on her face. “Of course I’ll be there,” she teases. “Finn asked me to come over a week ago.”

She winks at him and tugs open the door, dragging her cart behind her, and Ben’s left standing, chest about to burst.

His coworkers give him a round of sarcastic applause.

*

“So, you’re sure she’s coming?”

Drink in hand, Ben looks around the decorated conference hall one more time. It’s dimly lit and covered in tacky gold balloons that read ‘2019’, which makes spotting Rey and her ugly sweaters much more difficult than normal.

“Relax,” Finn assures him. “She texted me an hour ago and said that there’s no parking downtown, so she’s going to take an Uber instead. She’s still planning on coming.”

Ben glances down at his phone. _11:51._ “It’s nearly midnight.”

“Yeah I can see that.”

He scans the crowd. Most of his coworkers are milling around the food, though the more extroverted ones have chosen to writhe together in front of the DJ in some sort of lurid approximation of dance. His mother has left already, claiming that staying up until midnight is only for the young. Thank God she’s not here to see him potentially make a fool of himself. It’s bad enough that Hux is still here, drinking spiked punch in the corner by himself like a weirdo.

Something brushes against his elbow. He grunts and looks down, squinting.

“Hey Ben!”

It’s his mother’s tiny EA, Rose Tico. She smiles at him brightly, then turns to Finn. “Hi,” she whispers, suddenly breathy.

Finn’s eyes go wide, surprised but not necessarily hating the sudden attention. “Hey Rose,” he responds, squaring his shoulders. “You having a fun time?”

Her eyes sparkle. “I am now.”

“Oh Jesus,” Ben mutters. “I’m going to go, uh-”

He waves his hand in the direction of the buffet, not that Finn nor Rose even notice. After another sip of his drink, he awkwardly shuffles away and, _of course_ , because he’s Ben Solo, human disaster, he promptly runs into another partygoer, spilling his drink down their front as he does.

And, _of course_ , it’s Rey.

And she’s in something a lot more beautiful than an ugly sweater.

“Ben!” she squawks. “We have got to stop meeting like this!”

“I-I can get you a napkin?”

She throws back her head and laughs heartily, leaving him to stand and gape. “No, no, it wasn’t that much. I’m fine.”

He flails a bit, not wanting to touch her but still needing to somehow atone for his fuck up. “But it might get sticky and-”

“It’s fine. Really.”

“If you say so.” Ben stuffs his hands into his pockets, suddenly nervous. “Do you like the party?”

“It’s okay,” she says, a small smile curling the corners of her lips. “Nothing compared to the ones at the postal service though. Those mailmen really know how to let loose.”

“I’m sure.” He tries to gesture casually at her outfit and ends up looking like he’s attempting to shoo away a stray dog. “Sorry again about my drink. You look nice.”

She looks more than nice. She’s _luminous_ , in a skintight black dress woven through with silver that glitters in the low lighting and her hair pinned up in a messy bun. She’s even wearing heels, which make her just tall enough that the top of her head makes it up to his nose. It’s a big contrast to how she normally looks, but still unmistakably Rey.

“Thanks,” she says, twirling in the spot. “You look nice too. I like your blazer and man-scarf cravat thing.”

Ben tugs at the black scarf he’s tied around his neck. “Thanks, I was going for the Mr. Darcy look.”

“Ah!” Her eyes light up with recognition. “Now that you mention it, I get it.”

“So I was at least partially successful?”

She winks. “More than partially.”

 _“Alright boys and girls!_ ” A not quite sober Poe has grabbed the microphone from the DJ. _“It’s officially the last minute of 2018. Time to find the ones you love, and get ready for some smoochy-smoochy.”_

“It’s nice to see that Poe’s taking full advantage of the open bar,” Ben grumbles as the crowd around them starts sorting into pairs. “Since it was his idea.”

“Mmmhm.” Rey clasps her hands behind her back, pointedly looking at everything but his face. “Looks like everyone’s getting together.”

He swallows down the lump in his throat. “Uh yeah, about that. I have something I want to show you.”

He unwraps his non-intentional Mr. Darcy cravat from around his neck and shrugs his jacket off of his shoulders, revealing his final sweater. It’s crayon green, edged in glittery woven christmas lights that actually light up, thanks to a battery pack tucked into the waistband of his pants, but the crowning glory of the sweater is the highlighter yellow bubble letters on the front that spell out ‘KISS ME?’

Her eyes go wide, and she pauses. Ben can feel his pulse throbbing in his ears, he’s so nervous.

She frowns. “It’s...so ugly.”

His face falls. “You don’t like it?”

She lets him hang for a couple beats before her face splits into a grin. “It’s a compliment, Mr. Professional. It’s a truly ugly ugly sweater, and I _love_ it!”

_“OKAY EVERYONE GET READY! TEN! NINE!”_

Ben tosses his scarf and jacket to the side as Rey drifts closer to him.

_“EIGHT! SEVEN!”_

She tentatively reaches her hand towards him.

_“SIX! FIVE”_

He clasps her outstretched hand in his, so soft and trembling in his grasp.

_“FOUR! THREE!”_

Together, they step forward until he can graze her forehead with his lips.

_“TWO! ONE!”_

Ben tilts his head down just as Rey steps up on her tiptoes, and their lips meet in a sweet, soft kiss.

_“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”_

The music explodes around them, but Ben’s entire existence is caught up in Rey: how she tastes (questionable office punch), how she smells (clean soap and vanilla), and especially how she feels pressed up close to him (indescribable).

She pulls away, starry eyed, and whispers in his ear, “Is your office on this floor?”

Clutching her waist, Ben shakes his head. “No, most of the offices are upstairs. Why?”

“Oh.” She smiles coyly. “I was wondering if I could get a tour.”

He frowns. The FOP offices are nice, as far as offices go, but nothing special that would warrant an actual tour. “It’s not that great.,” he admits. “And mine is a bit of a mess, to be honest. I sometimes break things when I get mad.”

“ _Ben_ ,” Rey groans because, oh, this was another moment, and he missed it _again_.

“I mean-” He clears his throat. “Rey, would you like a tour of my office? Upstairs?”

“I would love a tour of your office upstairs,” she parrots back to him. “I thought you would never ask.”

It’s easy enough to sneak away from the rest of the party, especially since most of them seem to be following Poe’s lead and are helping themselves to the open bar. They’re only spotted by Finn, who gives Ben an exaggerated thumbs up as Rose nuzzles against his neck.

Upstairs is totally deserted. Illuminated by the sinister red glow of the emergency exit signs, Ben takes Rey’s hand and leads her down the hallway to his corner office. Thanks to Snoke’s obsession with modern, open concept spaces, every room is made entirely of glass, giving exactly zero privacy to its occupants, but Ben, emboldened by the dark, tugs Rey into his space nonetheless.

She lets out a small gasp when she sees the view. “You can see the river from here.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“ _Yeah, I guess so_.” She puffs up her chest to heighten the imitation. “You have no idea what it’s like to work a shit job, do you?”

He would consider designing paperclips under the supervision of his mother to be a pretty shit job, but he has a feeling that’s not what she’s asking. “God, it’s hot in here. Oh no!” he exclaims dramatically. “Guess I’m going to have to take this gorgeous sweater off.”

Rey makes a huge show of rolling her eyes as Ben peels off the ugly sweater and tosses it onto his desk. Underneath it he wears a plain white t-shirt. “It itches,” he explains, pulling a face. “They don’t really make ugly sweaters in soft fibres, like cashmere or merino.”

“What, not even Gucci?” she teases.

“You know what? I haven’t checked.”

She laughs. “I wish I brought something else.” She rubs her fingers on the glittery fabric covering her chest. “I know I said it wasn’t a problem, but your drink is making my dress a little sticky.”

His heart sinks. “I’m so sorry, Rey. I’m so clumsy, I-”

She shushes him with a finger on his lips. “It’s okay, I’ve got an idea. Close your eyes.”

He obeys, and even covers his face with his hands for good measure. There’s the metallic sound of a zipper being pulled followed by the gentle _fwump_ of fabric pooling on the ground and the caress of thick fabric rubbing up against smooth skin. His heart races with anticipation.

Voice husky, she says, “You can open them.”

Ben pulls away his hands, and nearly dies right there on the spot a the sight of Rey, limbs bathed in moonlight, standing before him clad in his gaudy KISS ME sweater.

Clad _only_ in his KISS ME sweater.

It’s a bit short on him, which only emphasized its ugliness. On her it hits her mid-thigh,  leaving most of her toned legs completely bare. “You like it?” she asks, and does a little spin.

“I-I I love it. You look amazing. Never better,” he chokes out, his throat seemingly both dry and overly phlegmy at the same time.

“Never better?” She gives him an exaggerated pout. “Does this mean that you _like_ ugly sweaters now?”

“I like them _on you_ ,” he clarifies.

She motions to the small black battery pack she’s placed on his desk. “I hope you don’t mind that I disconnected it. It should be too easy to put ba-”

She’s cut off as he swoops her up into his arms and kisses her. The force of his kiss backs her up against his desk, and all of the shit on top rattles.

“Ben, I’m going to wreck your stuff.”

“Not if I wreck it first.” Grinning wickedly, he reaches behind her and uses his arm to swipe all of junk onto the floor. He hears his laptop crunch against the carpet, but right now his mind is definitely occupied elsewhere.

“ _Ben!_ ”

“Don’t worry about it,” he breathes against her lips as he hitches her ass under his hands and deposits her with a _thump_ on his desk. She groans against him, and buries her fingers in his hair, leaving light fingernail scratches against his scalp that make his dick throb in his pants.

It’s been so long. So, _so,_ long, and all he can focus on is the feel of her soft body wrapped in his itchy sweater and the writhing shadows she casts against his office wall. He can’t think about how she’s grinding up against him, leveraging her weight on her heels so she can wrap her thighs around his hips and _press-_

Rey breaks their kiss, and asks, “Hey, have you thought about doing this before?”

Ben stares at her, eyes wide. “With you? Uh-”

“No, just doing this. Here,” she specifies, then pauses. “Have you thought about doing this with me?

His face flames. _Only every day since I first saw you_.

Laughing softly, she leans forward and presses a light kiss on the indent between his eyebrows. “That’s sweet. A bit creepy, but sweet.”

“I don’t want to be creepy,” he grumbles.

She shrugs. “I don’t make the rules.”

A peaceful stillness falls over the couple, as Rey traces his features with a featherlight touch and Ben attempts to will himself to keep breathing. “Just so you know,” she whispers, sending tingles down his spine. “If we’re doing _this_...I haven’t done this in...a while.”

He tries not to blurt out how he almost came apart at her touch, and instead murmurs, “Yeah, me too.”

Her eyes go wide. Thankfully, she chooses not to comment. “So, I’ll need to take it a bit slow, y’know. So it doesn’t...hurt.”

Leaning forward, he brushes his lips against her freckled cheeks. “I’ll need to take it a bit slow too, so it’s not- _uh_ \- over quickly,” he admits.

Rey gets a wicked gleam in her eye, and he groans. “Please don’t take that as a challenge.”

“Oh no, of course not!” She licks her lips, sending his heart into spasms. “Just means you’ll have more time for me, right?”

His hands tremble and grip her hips. “If you say so.”

Gaze locked on his, she smiles shyly and, inch by inch, tugs his sweater up over her body, revealing increments of smooth skin. She struggles a bit with the tight neck hole but eventually manages to tug the sweater off, leaving her hair messy and her body completely nude before him.

“Wow,” he breathes, reaching out to smooth her hair with his shaking hand. “You’re amazing.”

“How so?” she sasses back. “Is it because of my charm? My winning personality? My sweater construction skills?”

“Just the fact that you’re here, with me. And you- you’re so smart, and hilarious, and-” He nods his head in acquiescence. “-you do make some pretty cool sweaters.”

“I could make you a sweater.” She runs her finger along the shell of his ear, causing a shiver to run down his spine. “A really nice one. With sheep on it, or something.”

Her other hand tugs at his shirt, pulling it up so she can trace the contours of his abdomen as he grinds into her thigh. Groaning into her hair, he wiggles his arms out of his sleeves and pulls it off in one stroke, then tosses it into a corner.

“Would you like that?” she breathes.

“W-hat?”

“If I made you a sweater.”

“Yeah.”

At this point, he would say yes to almost anything. Anything at all to keep her naked and writhing and perched on his desk like en executive’s wet dream, or a scenario in a cheesy office porno. If he were in a more lucid state of mind, he would probably be worried that someone might catch them, or that the building’s security guards would be watching, or even that his previously discarded laptop was actually broken.

But this Ben Solo, the one with a woman on his desk in his arms, chooses to compartmentalize his thoughts and focus instead on teasing Rey’s toned thighs with his fingers until she spreads her legs, exposing herself to his questing hands.

“Is this slow enough for you?” he purrs, running one long finger around the edge of her folds, swirling closer and closer to her clit, but not quite grazing it. She lets out a huff of air, wiggling her hips against him.

“Oh yes,” she hisses. “Keep it up; I could do this all night.”

He keeps his pace slow, _punishingly_ slow, his index and middle fingers caressing her in time with her panting breaths as he rains kisses on her temple. Occasionally, he lets his thumb brush up against her clit, _just so_ , causing her to moan into his ear.

Despite the uncomfortable hardness in his pants, Ben’s never had so much fun in his life. He loves watching her squirm and chew on her lip under his touch as he ever so slowly explores her for the first time. The first seconds turn to minutes, each one more excruciating than the next, until he senses that it’s time to progress further. She’s still warm and slick and wet under his fingers, but the tension is starting to leech from her limbs, and her panting has subsided slightly, so he pulls his hand away.

“Why’d you sto- _ooo_ !” she exclaims, tossing her head back as Ben kneels down in the floor and runs his tongue up her pussy. She was right on the cusp of overstimulation and another minute of his fingers would have been to much, therefore he takes his time savoring the unique scent and taste and feel of her with his lips, tongue, and even the tip of his nose. Her clit is positively _throbbing_ , peeking from her folds enough that he can see it clearly and cup it gently with his tongue.

Thighs tensing, Rey starts to babble as her fingers grip white-knuckled at the edge of his desk. “Oh God, Ben, yes, yes, _like that_ , yes Ben, oh please please _please_ -”

There’s a moment where he can sense every muscle in her body clench in anticipation, and then she groans, orgasm washing over her in waves that send her hands into his hair, holding him in place as he strokes her clit with his tongue. Once she sags, boneless and sated, he hoists himself back up to his feet and admires his work.

If he thought her back was astonishing, her front is a damn work of art, all lean muscle, small perky breasts, and toned shoulders, topped off with her flushed, satisfied face. Leaning over, he captures on of her nipples in his mouth and latches on with his tongue stroking it to a peak. She lets out a moan of pleasure, which encourages him to explore further, his fingers trailing against her waist and the curve of her hip before resting ever so lightly on her still sensitive clit.

“B-ben-” she starts, but then his sinful fingers start swirling and her head falls back against his desk as he uses her slickness and a gentle touch to bring her to another trembling orgasm.

Smirking, he pulls back, letting her nipple pop out of his mouth. “Not done yet,” he whispers against the smooth skin of her breast. He lets his tongue trail across her chest until it meets her other nipple, which he envelops with his lips as his fingers resume their work.

Her third orgasm is more of a shudder, not explosive like the first two, but still pleasurable nonetheless. She’s almost completely boneless at this point, but Ben’s pretty sure he can hold off a bit longer, even as his dick seems hell bent on trying to escape his pants, so he kneels back down on the floor and replaces his finger with his tongue.

She’s _drenched_ and so soft and _so warm,_ so inviting against his mouth that he can feel a small wet spot starting to form at the front of his pants. She whimpers, exhausted, but starts letting out small pants as he licks her, and he has to pause to collect himself as all of the blood in his body tries to rush between his legs in anticipation.

She comes with a sigh and a smile on her face that he spots once he pulls himself back up. “I-I think I’m ready,” he says, and she lets out a chuckle that turns into a groan.

“You think?” she teases. “Honestly, you deserve it at this point. I don’t think anyone’s _ever_ made me come four times in a row.”

Ben smirks. “They don’t call me Mr. Professional for nothing.”

Rey rolls her eyes. “You know, if I hadn’t just come four times, I would totally deck you for that.”

She eases herself up onto her elbows. “Would you like me to, uh, return the favour?”

His dick almost explodes at the mere idea of her mouth anywhere near him, and he groans, fighting against the tingling sensation of cresting pleasure. “I was kind of hoping to come inside you,” he mumbles. “If that’s okay.”

“More than okay. You clean?”

He nods.

“Brilliant. Me too, and I’m on the pill.” She leans back, smooth skin glinting in the moonlight. “How do you want me?”

 _Anywhere. Any way_. He groans embarrassingly loud. “I-I don’t even care,” he stutters. “However you want.”

“Alright then.” Playfully, she pushes him away with a hand to his chest, then slowly slides off the desk and turns around. With a catlike stretch, she rubs her bare ass up against his crotch as she makes herself comfortable, hands and chest pressed onto the polished wood of his desktop.

He groans, again. “I-I don’t deserve you,” he stutters.

“I know.” She flashes him a cheeky look over her shoulder. “Don’t deny that this was the position you wanted.”

It was.

He scrambles out of his pants and underwear, hands shaking as he tugs the elastic down his legs. Taking in deep breaths, he gives himself a mini pep talk, terrified that this is going to be over way too soon. He runs his hands down Rey’s back, and she shivers, just waiting for him to take the next step, so he takes in a big, shuddery breath, grips her hips, and pushes in.

“Oh-,” he moans, because it’s too good. Just like he imagined, except warmer, and softer, and so much more vivid.   

The view is _astonishing_ ; the glowing expanse of Rey’s toned shoulders and curved ass

illuminated by the twinkling city lights beyond, while her beautiful face is reflected in the glass. It’s enough to make him pause even as the sensations threaten to overtake him; to pause and memorize the dimples at her waist and the way her lashes flutter against her eyes, the creamy scent of her skin and the hot, tight grip of her pussy on his dick.  

“Y-you going to just sit there all night?” Her eyes lock on his, reflected in the window.

She clenches around him, and that’s it, he has to move or else he’s going to come just from the way her eyes sparkle when they look at him. Pulling out just slightly, he lingers long enough to trail kisses down her spine before he starts thrusting at a steady pace, relishing the heady drag of her walls against his cock. He barely had time to think before he feels his nerves tingle and balls go tight, and then he’s coming inside her, freeing himself in the warm embrace of her body as he grips her hips tight enough to bruise.

He collapses, a panting, sweaty mess. Rey sighs, a satisfied smile pasted on her face, then suddenly asks, “What are those?”

Ben pries his eyes open, shakes his head a couple of times, and looks up to where Rey is pointing. It’s the top of his filing cabinet, currently host to several labelled mason jars of various sizes. “Oh.” He takes in a deep breath. “Those are my ghosts.”

“Your _ghosts?_ ”

He groans. “It’s a long story. I swear I’m not a weirdo.”

“Can I see them?

“Now?” He frowns. “I’m still inside you.”

She cocks her head at him, reflected back in the window. “Are you planning on going for round two right away?”

Ben presses his sticky forehead into her shoulder. “Fine,” he mumbles against her skin, then tenses his muscles enough that he can pull out and away from her, only to slump down onto his spare office chair.

Rey straightens up and immediately walks over to his filing cabinet. Stepping up on her tiptoes, she grabs the closest jar and examines it.

Ben spots a dribble of his cum sliding down her leg. “Oh my _god_ , I can’t believe we just did that in my office,” he mutters.

“Me neither.” She sits down on his desk and examines the jar. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I’m offended.”

She raises an eyebrow. “It took you a week to work up enough nerve to wear a holiday sweater to work. I can imagine that fucking in your office was a bit of a stretch for you.” She holds the jar in front of her. “Now explain the whole ghost thing.”

“I-I I don’t know.” Grimacing, he leans over and pulls his pants back on, suddenly feeling more vulnerable than he felt before. “I can’t, it’s silly.”

“I can imagine so. Still, tell me.”

“Fine.”

He takes the jar from her just so that he has something to occupy his nervous hands. “I guess it all started the day I saw a beautiful girl in a very, _very_ ugly sweater.”

*

On the first day back after the holidays, Ben walks into the office wearing a hot pink sweater covered in a syrupy waffle pattern, labeled with hand cut felt letters that read “STICKY AND SWEET”.

Rey had doubled over laughing when she presented to him and dared him to wear it. He had yanked it from her hands, pulled it over his head, and kissed the smirk off of her face to retaliate.

When he sees it, Hux nearly has a fucking meltdown and lectures him on the _‘seemingly unfathomable thing we like to call fashion, Ben_.”

The lecture takes over two hours.

It’s worth it.


End file.
